Chapter 3 - The Wolves at the Table
The fourth-floor master suite was less of an apartment and more of a fortress. High ceilings, dark mahogany paneling, bulletproof glass windows looking out over the sprawling pine forests surrounding the estate, and deep leather sofas centered around a marble fireplace.
Amara was sitting on a plush velvet armchair, happily eating a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies that Roman’s personal chef had brought up under guard escort.
"Mom," Amara said, her mouth full of cookies. "The big mister has a very loud heart."
I paused from pacing near the fireplace. "What do you mean, sweetie?"
"When he was leaning over to talk to you down there," Amara said, innocently swinging her legs. "His heart was beating like a drum. Fast. Like he was running, but he was just standing still."
I felt a sudden flush of heat creep up my neck. I brushed it off, walking over to check the heavy brass lock on the suite’s double doors. Two armed loyalists stood outside, under strict orders from Marco to shoot anyone who approached without Roman’s personal clearance.
Downstairs, the storm was brewing.
In the grand conference room on the second floor, Roman Valente walked through the double doors without a wheelchair, without an oxygen tank, and without a single tremor in his gait.
The heavy mahogany table was surrounded by the core elite of the Valente crime syndicate.
At the head sat Dominic Valente, Roman’s sixty-five-year-old uncle—a white-haired, sharp-eyed man wearing a three-piece suit. To his left sat Julian Valente, Roman’s younger brother, thirty-four, wildly handsome, impatient, and perpetually smelling of expensive bourbon. To his right sat Sofia Valente, Roman’s sleek, calculating cousin who ran the financial laundering network through Chicago’s art galleries.
When Roman walked into the room, unbuttoning his suit jacket and taking his seat at the center of the table, the room went dead silent.
Dominic’s teacup froze halfway to his mouth. Julian’s eyes widened in brief, uncontrolled panic before he masked it with a forced smile. Sofia remained motionless, her red-painted nails tapping rhythmically against her leather notebook.
"Roman!" Dominic exclaimed, putting his cup down with a sharp clink. "We heard you suffered a terrible attack outside the hall! The guards said you were unconscious!"
"Reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated, Uncle," Roman said smoothly. His voice was slightly raspy, but his expression was pure stone.
"We were deeply concerned," Julian added smoothly, leaning forward. "You know your lungs haven't been the same since the warehouse fire, brother. Perhaps pushing yourself to run the eastern logistics expansion is taking too much of a toll on your health."
"Is it?" Roman asked quietly, lacing his fingers together on the dark wood. "Funny. I thought my health was improving. Until my rescue inhaler mysteriously vanished from my pocket today."
A heavy tension dropped over the room.
Sofia leaned back, her eyes narrowing. "What are you implying, Roman? You misplace things when you're under stress."
"I didn't misplace it," Roman replied calmly. "It was removed. By Vivian."
Julian gasped softly. "Vivian? Your girlfriend? Why on earth would she touch your medication?"
"Because someone paid her five million dollars to make sure I suffocated in front of all of you at precisely twelve o'clock," Roman said, leaning forward. His slate-gray eyes swept over the three faces sitting around him. "And whoever paid her was stupid enough to leave a paper trail."
Dominic’s jaw tightened. "Roman, if Vivian attempted to harm you, she must be handled immediately. But to suggest that family—"
"I didn't say family, Uncle," Roman interrupted softly, a dark, dangerous smile touching his lips. "Why did your mind go straight to family?"
Dominic went stiff. "Because we are the only ones sitting in this room!"
"Vivian is currently in the basement holding cells," Roman announced flatly. "Marco is extracting the name of her handler as we speak. But before he finishes, I wanted to give whichever one of you signed this a chance to confess."
Roman pulled the folded medical form from his inner pocket and slammed it onto the glass table.
The paper slid across the smooth surface, stopping directly in front of Julian.
Julian looked down at the document. His eyes darted to the signature at the bottom. His hand twitched toward his glass of bourbon, but he restrained himself.
"This is Uncle Dominic's signature," Julian declared loudly, pointing a trembling finger at the bottom line. "Look! That's his slant! That's his official authorization code for the family pharmacy!"
Dominic’s face turned red with rage. "You lying little snake! I never signed that schedule modification!"
"It's your name, Dominic!" Sofia chimed in, her voice cold as ice. "You were the one complaining yesterday that Roman’s refusal to align with the Syndicate was costing us tens of millions in dock revenue!"
"I complained about business strategy!" Dominic roared, slamming his fist on the table. "I did not attempt to murder my own nephew!"
Roman sat back, watching the wolves tear into each other.
To anyone else, Dominic looked guilty. The signature was an exact replica of his handwriting. The authorization code matched his private ledger.
But Roman was watching Julian’s left hand.
Julian had a nervous tic—whenever he lied under severe pressure, his left thumb stroked the band of his signet ring. Right now, his thumb was moving frantically. Furthermore, Roman knew something nobody else in the room knew.
The medical form had been printed on heavy cotton-blend stock—a specific type of paper imported exclusively for Julian’s private real estate firm in downtown Chicago.
Julian had forged Dominic's signature to frame the uncle, eliminate Roman, and take total control of the Valente empire in the chaos that followed.
"Enough," Roman commanded softly.
The room immediately fell silent.
Roman stood up, his towering shadow covering the table. "The estate is on absolute lockdown. Nobody leaves. Nobody uses an unencrypted phone. Uncle Dominic, Julian, Sofia—you will remain in your respective suites until Marco finishes with Vivian."
"Roman, this is an insult!" Dominic snapped, standing up. "I built this family with your father!"
"And my father died protecting his brothers," Roman said, his voice dropping into a register that made the glass chandeliers tremble faintly. "If I find out a Valente bled my father's blood to poison mine... there will be no trial. There will be no exile. There will only be a grave."
Without another word, Roman turned and walked out of the conference room, leaving the three family members sitting in terrified, heavy silence.
As Roman walked down the hallway toward the elevator, Marco met him, looking grim.
"Boss," Marco whispered. "Vivian sang."
Roman stopped. "And?"
"It wasn't Dominic," Marco confirmed in a low whisper. "She said the payments came through a shell company in the Cayman Islands registered to Julian’s personal attorney. But there’s a problem."
Roman’s eyes narrowed. "What problem?"
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"Julian’s private security detail just cut the power feeds to the secondary surveillance hub," Marco warned. "They know the net is closing. Boss... they aren't trying to escape. They're going after the witnesses."
Roman’s blood ran cold. "Clara and Amara."
